Project Nine and ThreeQuarters
by Eleora
Summary: For years the police had been watching Kings Cross on September 1st for it was on that day that parades of dresswearing strangers would vanish into a pillar. Thats where Brandy Bishop comes in. Mission: infiltration of Platform nine and three quarters.
1. Infiltration

**Stage one: Infiltration**

It was a bright and sunny day in September. The butterflies flitted merrily on high , sickeningly cute rabbits frolicked about and all the birds in London chirped in perfect tune with one another, creating an incessant orchestra of cheeps and chirps. Babies with enormously wide and curious eyes blinked happily at strangers, pigeons gathered at corners in perfect circles of harmonious existence--in no one's way at all.

It was all just another ordinary day at Kings Cross Station. If you discount the strangely attired few (in dresses!) walking not-so-discretely through walls. Also, there _were_ an abnormally large number of trolleys dissapearing into pillars--and lets not forget the sudden 'POP' followed by the suspisciously magical appearence of those self-same people.

All in all, it was rather simple to figure out that _something_ was not quite right at Kings Cross. In fact, it had not been quite right for some time. For years these strange folk had paraded twice a year through the Station in their embarassing attire, and all for the peculiar joy of walking through an otherwise unremarkable pillar--located comfortably between platforms 9 and 10.

Indeed, these activities were not quite as unnoticed as the perpetrators thought they were. For years the police had been watching Kings Cross on Septeber 1st; for it was on that day--without fail--that the strange procession of all sorts of odd folk would occur. The police had tried repeatedly to follow the strange people, sending agent after agent to the pillar, but invariably, the detectives would return with either massive bumps on their heads ("They walked right through the wall, sir!") or complete loss of memory. It was baffling, and therefore immensly frustrating.

This year the police had come up with a better plan, though. Their attempts to send an adult disguised as a child had clearly failed--so this year, they would send in a _real_ child. It would be dangerous, yes. The child would be walking into a potentially hostile situation utterly blind. But it was worth it--or so the head of the department believed. Of course, as he was calling all the shots, it was perfectly alright for him to speak for all of those beneath him.

A careful survey of possible candidates for the assignment had begun September 2nd of the previous year. Most of the candidates were found to be woefully inadequate--this assignment required brains (to survive), beauty (to charm), humor (to weasel out of sticky situations), and a certain tendency towards the sneaky (to glean information). Out of 453 children, only one fit all of those requirements: Brandy Bishop, sixteen years old, from Liverpool.

After almost a year of training in every area of combat possible, as well as learning how to negotiate effectively, the careful arts of manipulation and other such innocent things, Project Nine and Three-Quarters was about to commence. All that remained was actually walking through the wall--successfully, that is.

Brandy had a trolley loaded with the random objects the police had observed on children's trolleys the previous years. She was dressed in the same odd fashion as the suspects, and even had the wide-eyed-but-somehow-disdainful look down to a pat. So with a final, 9-second intake of air, Brandy squared her shoulders and pushed her trolley towards the wall behind a group of human carrots.

The smallest one--a girl of about 15--turned in her direction and flashed a quick smile. Returning the gesture with a vague attempt-at-a-smile, Brandy quickly turned to her right, suddenly realizing just _how fascinating_ the railroad tracks were. Or at least, she hoped the gesture looked like anything **but** an attempt to avoid conversation.

After a few tense seconds, the undercover agent snuck a glance towards the left. Good--Carrot family vanishing rapidly through the wall. Brandy swallowed hard. At least she had made it this far without losing her memory. Now came the real test. Eyes narrowing in determination, she clutched the trolley with hands gone white from tension and raced full speed towards the wall. It was too much to watch, she had to close her eyes. Any moment now, and she would ram into the pillar.

Any moment.

Brandy brought the trolley to a halt. One hazel eye peaked open, and the other quickly followed along with a gasp as she looked around. She had done it. 53 unsuccesful attempts by other agents, and she, Brandy Bishop, had made it through.

Victory is indeed sweet.

But--hold on. Now what?

The slender girl glanced around. See what the suspects are doing first, then follow. Erm, right. Little kid running with toad--unimportant. Middle-aged woman in purple robe? Nope--she dissappeared with another of those obnoxious "POP"s.

Oh wait--Perfect. Carrot girl from Platform 9.

Nodding happily to herself, Brandy pushed the trolley over towards where Carrot was boarding the obscenely red train ('The Hogwarts Express'--or so the gaudy gold lettering proclaimed) and manuevered in line behind her.

Glancing around, time passed sooner that she thought as her mind filled with wonder and skeptisism at the sights surrounding her. One of the suspects (there had to be more than two-hundred! The organization was definately bigger than Leadership thought) waved a twig at another and shouted in what seemed to be a fairly northern dialect of Gibberish. Suprisingly enough, the second suspect suddenly found himself with a fine head of hair--coloured pink and purple, that is. All across the platform other suspects were performing equally baffling feats.

"Ticket please." Brandy jumped slightly at the voice. A wizened old man stared back at her, eyes twinkling like mad as he repeated the request.

"Already?" she congratulated herself for disguising her hysteria so well.

The man (conductor?) sighed good-naturedly and shrugged before replying. "Yes, we've had to change the policy this year-- too many first years chucking tickets in the bins once they're on the Platform. Think the tickets for the portal, they do." he chuckled, "Course, 's'not like the 'Spress really needs tickets--she knows her own, she does." He fondly patted the side of the train.

Right. One too many pints there, conductor? "Oh, erm. Well, you see," she faked a blush--acting lessons were beautiful things--"this is my first year as well, and my ticket--" she shrugged hopelessly, sporting an expression of bashful embarassment.

It worked like a charm. "You look a mite old for a first year--transfer are you?" She nodded. "Ah, well, if anyone asks, I took your ticket--faulty charms on it, of course." He winked and waved her on.

Scarcely daring to believe her good luck, Brandy sprung onto the train and dragged her trunk behind her. Finding a miraculously empty compartment, she slipped through the door, hoisted her trunk up, and nestled into the corner seat for a trip to the unknown.

The adventure had finally begun.

* * *

**The plotline popped into my head during lunch, and wouldn't leave me alone. Should I continue with this? Input would be greatly appreciated!**


	2. A Gathering of Intel

_**A/N: Disclaimer:** "I own Harry Potter and his universe!" Eleora cried out, her face filled with greedy delight. But all were not in agreement with this statement. It began with a deep, faintly-threatening rumble. It ended with an outburst of roars so great, Atlantis sank 53 times deeper, appearing upside-down on the other side of the world. The roaring was not just mindless rage, but a mantra that repeated the same message over and over again: "Eleora owns nothing! Eleora owns nothing!" Sufficiently cowed, and robbed of her hearing, Eleora released her claim and left--sulking--to explore the upside-down kingdom of Atlantis._

* * *

**Stage Two: A Gathering of Intel**

Brandy carefully lowered her favorite copy of _the Taming of the Shrew_. It was her favorite, namely because she had no other copies for it to contend with—contrary to popular belief. People these days were far too eager to believe she was a prejudiced bigot who hated soft-covered books and bought dozens of copies of any book in hardcover. Heaven forbid. As if she needed more than one copy to have a favorite. And it was only a hard copy because hard covered books were just easier to hit people with, should the need ever arise.

Not saying such a need ever would, of course. Not in such a perfect, wonderful world where butterflies fluttered their perfect, beautiful little wings in unison as they flitted happily in the sky and performed amazing flips and spins—all in unison! The world where hard-cover books were the preferred weapon of defense was undoubtedly one filled with angry butterflies, taken to dive-bombing innocent bystanders and other such horrendous acts against mankind.

But where were we, again?

Brandy peered over the top of her (lowered) book. An angry hiss sounded from behind the safety of her innocent-looking book. _They_ were still there. And _they_ were still staring. Was she ever this bloody annoying when she younger? Just because she "looked bleedin' old to be a first year!" didn't give them any reason to stare. Or for that matter, to cuss. Idiots. Maybe Santa could bring them a bar of soap (to wash their mouths out!), instead of coal—which was what they deserved, really.

"Liar."

So it begins again. Was five minutes of peace and rest too much to ask for?! Brandy sighed and carefully closed the book, setting it down on her lap.

"You're joshin' us," Insisted Brat #1. Ugly little cretin, really—all glasses and braces with bits of freckles poking out. Not to mention that _hair!_

"Do I _look_ like I'm joking?" she hissed. They had been through this _how many times?_

"Yes." So, Brat #2 was equally as stubborn.

"Oh, okay." Brandy smiled brightly and picked up her book again. "Glad that's taken care of."

Two pairs of eyes blinked at her in confusion.

One pair blinked back.

"Erm-," began Brat #2

She nodded helpfully, "Go on."

"Well—," Brat #1 continued.

"Come on, don't be shy. It's really quite entertaining. I've always found the sound of ignored conversation to be delightful—especially when those being ignored happen to be whiney little monsters. It adds a higher pitch to the background hum and makes it so much easier to devise methods of torture. So by all means, continue on with your pointless questions." She finished with another blindingly-bright smile. "Oh—door's that way of course, if you get _bored_."

Alas, but it seemed boredom struck far sooner than usual, as the two boys all but dove for the door in their haste to get away.

…Or, perhaps not. Perhaps they really just sat there and cried. Perhaps they all swore to be friends forever. Perhaps they really opened their wicked little mouths and uttered the secrets of the universe, starting with—oh, well I suppose we better not go there. That would be spoiling things, now wouldn't it?

No, instead something much worse happened. The little freaks, the current banes of her existence, leaned back against the wall and _grinned_.

"Congratulations," Brat #2 all but oozed fiendish delight, "You've passed."

"I've what?"

"Passed." Oh, _very_ helpful, you snot-nosed, sniveling little—"Passed our friend-test, of course."

Brandy blinked. "Your _friend-test_? You actually expect to make friends this way? You're mad; absolutely barmy! The both of you!" Any response on their part was cut off however, as the compartment doors chose that particular moment to randomly open.

Or--perhaps not so randomly, as the figure standing outside the door would attest to. Upon examination, Brandy realized with faint amusement that said figure was quite frankly, awkwardness incarnate. With fluffy brown hair framing a slightly-round face, and eyes the exact shade of brown as that hideous sweater Brandy's mum used to wear (the one with the green spots on the right shoulder) to soften the lanky frame and overly-large feet, the boy was the perfect image of clumsy innocence. But if there was one thing Brandy knew, it was that appearances can be _very_ deceiving.

"Has anyone seen a toad?" the (suspicious! looking) intruder asked.

"Excuse me?"

"I asked, d'you know where the trolley lady is?" he repeated.

"Erm, right. Are you sure that's what you said? Because I thought _sure_ you asked if anyone saw a toad…" Brandy trailed off, slightly nervous for some odd reason. Perhaps it was the fact that she was who-knows-how-far-away from any backup, and was headed who-knows-where on a train filled with who-knows-what. Yes, that was a rather satisfactory explanation for the nerves.

He, being the unnamed figure at the door, looked at her strangely. "No," he continued slowly, "I dare say you got it wrong. I never said anything about a—"

"I said it." A small voice from the corner spoke up. Ah, Brat #1 has a voice after all. "It was a vision." He spoke with dreamy sophistication. Had there had been any liquid to snort and choke on in surprise, everyone in the compartment would have been dead of asphyxiation, they were so surprised. "Yes, yes! A vision of what your fate will be, should you decide not to join us! I see loneliness, desolate wandering, death…!"

"And I see a mini-Trewlawney," muttered the figure standing in the doorway.

"…painful years of pathetic existence...!"

"Say, what's your name, anyways? I can't very well keep thinking of you as "the figure standing in the doorway" now, can I?" Brandy asked; her face a lovely shade of green. Some of the "predictions" were quite, well—unsettling.

"…angry figures chasing you, running you to the ground….!"

"Oh—it's Boot. Terry Boot. And I dare say you don't know anything about the trolley lady, do you? Pity. Well then, must be off!" And he was gone in a flash. Complete with eerie green lighting and acrid smell—and _theme_ music.

Strange types, these people were.

Well, there was no way—not in heaven, hell or anywhere else—that she was going to stay (alone, heaven forbid!) in the compartment with those miscreants.

Was it too much to ask for a quiet corner to herself?

**

* * *

**

Brandy had come upon a sad truth. The world beyond Platform 9 was perfect in almost every way—except one. Sure, the residents of said world had many things going for them—fancy looking sticks (that looked—and acted—suspiciously like wands) that changed people's hair colour (and probably more!), wicked-comfy seat cushions, and the ability to completely ignore the common laws of fashion—but due to the complete and utter lack of _one thing_, their world sucked, to put it plainly. The World-Beyond-Platform-Nine had no such thing as Peace and Quiet.

The closest thing could be found in the girls loo, stall 9. Consequently, the closest thing to normality could be found there as well—Brandy. Currently, said normality was crouched rather unhappily on the floor of the stall, trying her hardest not to count just how many rules of hygiene she was breaking. Not that it mattered, of course—she would be sitting here no matter how many she broke. If she was to die, better it be from contracting who-knows-what-disease from the dirty floor than loss of sanity (due to the severe lack of previously mentioned Peace and Quiet, of course).

Good God was it frightening here—nerve-wracking, as well. Shouldn't the Academy have offered some sort of mental-balance class or so? Just to ensure their agents would not have a mental or nervous breakdown?

Idiots—typical of them to forget something like that. Not that she would ever say so to any superior's face, however. As much as Brandy enjoyed criticizing them mentally, she had a firm respect for authority when it came to actual obedience. A hearty "yes, sir!" served with a side of salute, as she liked to think of it. Besides, things were much simpler when all you had to do was follow orders and blame anything that went wrong on your commanding officer—discretely (and respectfully) of course.

Brandy took a deep breath. Just what _had_ she learned so far about the people of the World-Beyond-Platform-Nine? Well, they seemed overly paranoid (what with that whole "secret entrance", and the lets-give-amnesia-to-the-police thing), which indicated they had something to hide. They also had either superior hair-dying techniques or the sticks were actually wands, as ludicrous as that was to imagine—and Brandy knew which she would prefer. A cultish group dedicated towards advancing the cosmetic field was _much_ preferable to a magic community—sticky things, those.

On top of that, the spawn of the Platformians (for severe lack of a better word) were obnoxious, delirious, rude, and quite frankly terrifying.

Brandy realized just how close to hyperventilating she was—and wouldn't that turn out wonderfully. Of course, she had every right to hyperventilate—who _knows_ what sort of place she was headed to? For all Brandy knew, the train could be headed to a heinous and sacrificial festival to their Goddess of Cosmetics. She could be cut into lipstick-thin strands and fed to wild-penguins!

…Or—perhaps not. One can only hope.

Further morbid thoughts were forgotten however, as a disgustingly-cheerful voice announced their arrival at "Hogsmede." At least she didn't have to drag that trunk around, though. Supposedly, someone would take care of them. Well, it was ruddy fine with her. They could take the stupid thing if they wanted—and the owl. It was being "borrowed" from the zoo anyways, so it wasn't like it was really hers.

"Would the person in stall number nine please exit the bathrooms and leave the train?" What the—perverts! And talk about embarrassing, anyways.

One groan, two moans and a stubbed-toe later, Brandy was hobbling down the corridor after several of the shorter Platformians.

Now, to face the Cosmetic Goddess—or whatever was beyond the gleaming shell of the Hogwarts Express.

* * *

**_"Though this be madness, yet there is method in't"William Shakespeare_**

_**A/N:** Well, dear Reader, so ends another chapter. The time to act has come! Release the comments, criticisms, complements and flames! Tear apart the story with your needles of logic! But please--oh please--do not suffer it to die from the slow suffocation of "zero-feedback-edness." Should it deserve to die, tell me. Should it deserve to live, tell me. That is all, my good Reader, until next we meet. Fare thee well! etc._


	3. Third time is the charm

**Stage three: Third time is the charm**

It is a well-established doctrine that Fate is a tricky thing. While many inhabitants of the small, green and blue planet do not necessarily believe in fate, they entertain themselves every once in a while by playing_ what if_ and coming to the conclusion that _if_ fate existed, it should be entirely unpredictable and quite annoying as well. In fact, those aforementioned will never know just how close they are to the truth. Not only is it entirely unpredictable, it also has an uncanny talent of catching you off balance at the worst possible times.

Unfortunately for her, Brandy Bishop was no exception. In fact, Fate had a particularly nasty trick in store for her. For the moment however, our heroine had absolutely no idea of what was to come, and so when she stepped out of the Hogwarts Express, she was absolutely shocked at what she saw.

It was complete chaos.

Bright flashes of light dominated the scene before her as panicked Platformians dashed for cover. A few of the smaller, shorter Platformians huddled behind older ones and blubbered, but most of them were using their wands (over the past few seconds, Brandy had reluctantly come to the conclusion that the sticks were, in fact wands, and not sophisticated hair-dying instruments. Rather disappointing) to shoot the colourful rays of light at the creepy figures in white Halloween masks.

It was all rather befuddling, and combined with the previous events of the day; it came as no surprise when Brandy began to laugh hysterically. After all, there is only so much one can take without a bit of insane laughter to ease the brain. But honestly, it _was_ a rather funny scene, with people dashing around like lunatics and playing hot-potato with coloured beams of light.

Soon, the noise around her died down a bit until the first, brave Platformian began laughing, and then all of them were laughing, even the men in the Halloween masks and dresses. Then the whole world praised Brandy Bishop as their saviour, and statues of her beautiful, laughing face were erected everywhere, and the people loved her and—

--well, perhaps it didn't go quite like that. The only response to her laughter was that suddenly there were a lot more coloured beams of light heading in her direction. Brandy stopped laughing long enough to wonder what colour her hair would be after they all hit her, especially that bright green one on the left…

And suddenly she felt something slam into her, and the ground was suddenly kissing her side. A grunt of pain escaped her lips as the full weight of her fall hit her.

"What are you stupid or something? Where's your wand?"

Brandy blinked up at the boy who—"You knocked me over!" she hissed in outrage.

"Well, if you weren't standing around like an idiot mudblood, I wouldn't have had to!"

"Oh, and I don't suppose you would have done different in my case, would you?" sarcasm, how we love thee.

"Oh for Merlin's sake—yes! I would have remembered I was a wizard and—_Protego_!—used my bloody wand! Now for the last time, where's your wand?" He positioned himself in front and began firing off (what Brandy had decided were) spells. The weird movement with his wand and the decidedly malicious look on his face as he shouted his gibberish were proof enough.

"I don't know—I think I lost it…" she muttered. Stupid stick—not that it could have done anything to help her. Still, it might have been useful to poke a particular someone in the eye… she glared viciously at the boy's back.

"You lost it." He mocked, "Can't bear to say someone used_ expelliarmus_ on you, and you failed to block it? No, never mind whatever witty retort you were about to throw at me—take that first year's wand. You'll have to shield both yourself and her, but still…" he indicated the chosen victim with a stab of his arrogant little—pointy!—jaw. "Go!"

Muttering under her breath, Brandy dodged her way over to the "first-year." "Can I borrow that, luv? Thanks." She whipped the wand out of the girls hand before realizing she had no idea what to do with it. "Erm, never mind that. You can keep it."

At that particular moment, the part of her brain which had frozen the instant she stepped off the relative safety of the train decided to function again, and with a stab of anger towards her stupidity, Brandy realized she was _not_ completely defenseless. After all, it would be quite stupid of Leadership to send her—without backup—into a possibly hostile situation without proper ammunition and firepower.

A flick of her wrist, and a revolver was sitting quite contentedly in her hand. It was small, but rather effective all the same. A shriek interrupted her thoughts as the small girl beside her pointed at one of the masked lunatics.

"There!" Acting on adrenaline and pure reflex, Brandy snapped the revolver into position and fired. The long hours on obstacle courses had honed her aim from disastrous to pretty-darn-good, and Brandy noted with little surprise that the bullet had struck gold.

"Nice gun." The first-year commented, before pointing out another masked hoodlum.

"Oh? You mean you've actually heard of one?" Brandy fired another shot.

"Yeah, in muggle studies." She continued when Brandy shot her a look, "I know they don't offer them at Hogwarts until third-year, but I took them during second year at my old school."

"How old are—"

"Thirteen. I know I don't look it at all, but it's the maturity that counts, eh?" she grinned at Brandy, and it was with some surprise that Brandy realized she was grinning right back.

The heartwarming bonding scene was cut tragically short however, as they both became aware of a large, dark object rapidly rushing through the air in their direction. The victim of an especially high-powered _expelliarmus_ crashed into the two girls with sickening crunch. Amid the chorus of painful groans and gasps, Brandy managed to find her revolver again and brought it up for a clean shot.

"Hold still!" she commanded the flailing newcomer. Two bullets and several spells later, they had dispensed of any immediate threats enough to untangle themselves and maneuver into a better position.

From behind her, Brandy could hear her two—acquaintances? Allies?—talking, or rather squabbling. She listened with a small grin on her face as she methodically took aim and shot.

"I don't care that you lost your wand! This one's mine and you can't use it!"

"It might be yours, but I highly doubt you can use it, and certainly not better than I can!" retorted a rather angry male voice.

"Who do you bloody think you are!" the girl roared back, "First you come flying through the air at us—"

"Oh yes, and I _really_ wanted to—"

"Then you demand my wand—"

"You're a bloody first year! What do you expect to do, _Wingardium Leviosa_ them all to death? And that's only if you've read ahead in your books!"

There was a moment of heated silence. "I am _not_ a first year! This is my third year, thank you very much!"

"Oh and that makes a lot of difference! Just give me the bloody wand already!"

Brandy interrupted them both before the argument could escalate any further. "Would you two just shut _up_ already? I need some help up here!"

That decided the matter.

"Oh for the love of Merlin! Here—_expelliarmus!_—there's a ruddy wand for you. Idiot."

They both joined Brandy and began shooting spells out at the general populace.

"Ever heard of aiming?" tall, dark and handsome asked the third-year.

"Yes, do you need to know the definition? Your lack of aim would certainly lead one to think so."

"Hardly, I was just making sure you were up to first-year level. Of course, they know how to apply their knowledge in practice, not just recite the theory of how it _should_ work. I suggest actually hitting a target."

A smart slap was his answer. "I have perfectly good aim, or do you think I should practice on you again?"

Whatever remark he was about to make was lost in oblivion as at that particularly unfortunate moment, the wagon they were crouched behind decided its life was pathetic and that yes, life as bits of debris and kindling wood would be much better. The result was that a random _reducto_ curse hit the wagon and blasted it to bits, effectively destroying their shelter.

"Charming." Brandy muttered dryly. The three looked around for shelter and dashed behind a house. "We should have run here a long time ago," she panted. While Brandy had been trained as to be sufficiently in shape, even she had her limits. After all, one can't be beautiful, intelligent, witty, and in shape all at the same time and still hit ones target. It was a matter of physics, it was. And, er, chemistry and genetics! Regardless, a bit of breathy panting never hurt anyone, anyways.

"Perhaps," agreed the third year, "but we were a little bit busy saving everyone, and then Sir Idiot over here decided it was a fine time to play quidditch and went all bludger on us."

"For the last time, it was an accident!—And I am most certainly _not_ and idiot. If anyone is, it would be you. You're the one who can't aim."

Their argument was interrupted once more by renewed surge of spells headed their way. Either this was a bizarre welcoming festival and the more attempts on your life the more popular you were, or they were about to be forced out of the frying pan and into the fire. Now would be a really convenient time for reinforcements to appear out of thin air: with a nice, loud pop—and perhaps theme music.

To Brandy's utmost surprise, that's exactly what happened next—well, except for the theme music. Though, come to think of it, Tall-Dark-and-Handsome _was_ whistling…

Her thoughts were abruptly cut off as for the third time that day, something slammed into her. Jarring pain filled her body, and as darkness clouded her vision, Brandy distantly thought to herself, _third time's the charm…_


	4. Fire and Ice

**Stage Four:**** Fire and Ice**

Some people are born with a natural talent for perfection. From the first sight of ten exquisitely shaped toes to the last breath ushered from between gleaming, pearly teeth and soft, rosebud lips, their lives are blessed with only the very best. This talent for perfection and all things enviable appears at the most propitious times throughout their lives and ensures that happiness, wealth and romance always follow in the best of combinations. To sum it up, these lucky few are exactly the sort that causes steady, level-headed blokes to deal out a nice right-cross for no more provocation than a simple "Oh my! How unusually dashing you look today!"

But of course, this bit of thought has absolutely nothing to do with our story, except to provide a lovely example of exactly the sort of person that Brandy Bishop never was. Indeed, judging from previous events, one could go so far as to say Brandy Bishop was exactly the opposite of the aforementioned few. Certainly waking up to utter darkness and immovability in a frightfully sterile room is reason enough to attest to that theory.

Should Brandy have been more of an optimist, she might have described her current situation as enthralling in its newness and utter unpredictability. Were she an artist she might have mentioned the symphony of sounds that reached her ear or the cool, comforting feel of the sheets wrapped so snugly around her that reminded her of a wealth of treasured memories sealed within her heart and mind. Had she leant more towards the superficial frame of mind, she might have questioned frantically the exact state of her undoubtedly neglected hair or that eyeliner that must be running by now.

However, Brandy Bishop was none of the above to any noteworthy degree, and her thoughts reflected only that personality which was uniquely her own. In spite of the fact that she was currently lying immobilized on a strange bed, in an unfamiliar room (that reeked with the utter _absence_ of smell), after having been attacked by a flying object for the third time in a day that was positively filled with many new and frightfully stressful situations and discoveries—in spite of all that, Brandy's concentration was centred on one train of thought only that ran through her mind and recoiled upon itself to run the gauntlet once more. _Some say the world will end in fire, others say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire, I hold with those who favour fire. But if I had to perish twice, I think I know enough of hate to know that for destruction, ice is also great and would suffice._ It was a poem she had read during a summer literature programme that she had mostly forgotten about until this point. Said poem could be considered a completely random and unexpected thing to have repeating through one's mind at a time like this expect for one small thought—her own—that connected the words to her situation. _Is it fire or ice this time that will end my world?_ She turned the thought over in her head, musing over it. _After all, my back is on fire, but my toes are ice…_

The philosophical argument was cut short by an explosion of light that soundlessly filled her vision with blinding whiteness. Cutting short a string of colourful expressions before they were vocalized, Brandy snapped her eyes shut and positively willed her arm to move and block the light. Unfortunately, her mental powers were nothing to speak of, so the only result was the start of a pounding headache—a headache which did nothing to help her rapidly worsening mood.

"Hullo." A disembodied voice called out, frightfully loud against the silence of the hospital wing. "It's just me, Margaret--nobody to be worried about. You can hear me, can't you?"

Brandy opened her eyes hesitantly and frowned—did she know a Margaret? The name was familiar, but she hadn't heard it in years, it seemed; certainly not since primary school. She'd had a schoolmate named Maggie, but it was such a dreadfully long time ago, really…

"Can you hear me?" Margaret continued in louder, more anxious voice, "I know you're awake, you wouldn't be blinking at me like a ruddy fish if you were sleeping, now would you? Well, regardless. I'm just going to assume that you can hear and for reasons currently unknown—but I assure you, I _will_ find out—you are choosing to ignore me. So I suppose I'll just explain what I'm doing here while you're so obligingly quiet."

Brandy blinked in astonishment—after all, it was the only way to physically communicate astonishment as her eyes were currently the only part of her body that she could move. Although, she was beginning to feel a bit more in her nose -- it rather tickled, really. Soon enough she might be able to wrinkle it, but wrinkling one's nose is hardly a fitting show of astonishment…

A short laugh flickered through the room, "I haven't even been here a full day, and I'm already breaking more than five school rules—all for your sake, come to think of it. Then again, you quite possibly saved my life back in Hogsmede today, or rather yesterday. Frightful business, that." Margaret sighed, her voice quieter, more subdued now. "Basically, what I'm trying to get around to saying is that I'm here to spring you out."

Brandy's nose twitched violently in response. There really wasn't much more she could do.

"Hospital wing is a ghastly place to be, especially for one like you. Ruddy good thing that you were considered small enough threat to be left alone with only a—" she paused, running practiced eyes across Brandy's paralyzed form—"full-body bind from what I can see, or perhaps just a paralyzing potion, judging from that horridly twitchy nose. I'd give the countercharm and all, but I daresay you'll be much more cooperative if you're smuggled out this way." She moved closer and waved her wand in a complicated series of gestures as she muttered something in—Latin?

A curious lightness enveloped Brandy and she realized with a silent gasp that the ceiling was much closer than before, and the light was dimmer, and the air was breezy and soft and caressing. She was floating! Flying through the air and thumbing her nose at gravity!

Well actually, not quite floating, and not really flying either. More like being grabbed and hauled off her bed (which meant either Margaret was a lot stronger than she looked or she, Brandy, was a lot lighter than before--which would account for the feeling of lightness) and watching in horrified fascination as a broom came hurtling through the now-opened hospital door towards them both. It veered closer to them, travelling at velocities frightening in close quarters for a motorbike, let alone a broom. It was too much to bear. With eyes watering frantically and a soundless scream rising in her throat, Brandy began the laugh hysterically to herself—quiet wheezes from a mouth paralyzed shut. So this was to be her end—bludgeoned to death by a disturbingly polished piece of cleaning equipment. It fit somehow with the strange twist her life had taken ever since she began this crazy mission. But still, she had never imagined her death to be so, well, unromantic really.

Such morbid thoughts were cut short however by the realization that the broom had come to a complete halt and now lay docilely beneath the hand of Margaret. "Don't panic," the wild-broom-charmer whispered, "but I'm going to have to hold you off to the side—the hallways are too narrow for you to lie sideways." A moment later and Margaret was clambering onto the broom, awkwardly attempting to hold onto Brandy with one arm and grasp the broom with the other. Suddenly, a loud scuffing noise brought the would-be rescuer to a frozen halt.

"Maggie!" the words were whispered in a particularly threatening and violent way from the direction of the hall. "By the gods, are you completely mad?"

"Stuff it, Theo! Kindly move so I can get through the door."

"We never agreed to this! The idea was to use a hover charm, not go off on a wild broom flight through the corridors!"

"Hover charm won't work—they've got a charm on her that will go off if magic of that level or higher is used. I put a modified feather-light spell on her, but even that is risky. Taking her by broom is the fastest way to get out and it'll raise the least amount of alarm if someone's set up proximity wards."

"Alright, alright—we'll take her out on the Nimbus, but only on one condition. I fly her out." Margaret's spluttered protests were drowned out as he continued, "You're not nearly as good of a flyer as I am, especially in closed corridors, you're a lot smaller and you've got shorter arms, and further more I'm not going to be responsible for telling Mum that I allowed my little sister to bash her head in because I let her fly about in a dangerous situation."

"A dangerous situation?" she mocked, "You're a Ravenclaw and that's really the best you can come up with to describe what we're in? This is phenomenal, Theo! A moment to remember for the rest of your life! We've finally found the right person, we're in the midst of a dangerous operation to bring said person to a safe house, and all you can come up with is 'a dangerous situation.'"

"Stop stalling, Margaret. Now is neither the time, nor the place. It's nearly 3:45 as it is—some of the students will be waking soon to study—"

"Ravenclaws."

"—or go running or any number of things. Now get off the broom and go back to your dormitory."

"Sweet Merlin, I should have never asked you to watch the corridors. I knew you would end up pulling something like this." Margaret sighed and set Brandy down on the floor before climbing off the broom and sullenly handing it to her brother. "Pompous idiot. Trust you to spoil everything."

"Sweet dreams, Maggie. Enjoy the nice, long walk back to the dormitories. Watch out for scary Slytherins, too-smart Ravenclaws and over-zealous Gryffs. Don't drink any random potions lying about. Stay away from suspicious-looking wall-hangings!" He raised his voice slightly as he directed his last warning to her rapidly retreating back, "Don't talk to strangers!" A dry chuckle followed before Theo stooped down to pick up the motionless form of Brandy. "Alright, miss Muggle. Let's get you out of here. I'm not convinced that you're really worth this much trouble, but Maggie's sure that you're the person we've been looking for. I daresay we'll all find out in the morning."

Climbing gracefully onto the broom, he tucked Brandy against his side before kicking off the ground. A grin flickered across his face, invisible in the darkness, as he leaned forward and set off down the hall at a breathtaking speed.

What followed was a ride unlike anything Brandy had ever experienced. At first she could hardly keep her eyes open, so sure was she that they would crash into the nearest wall, but after a few minutes of twisting and turning through corridors with utmost ease, she began to actually enjoy the flight. They flew through corridor after corridor, passing numerous doors and hallways under the shadows of the ever-present portraits and wall-hangings. Brandy found that she wasn't the slightest bit surprised about the animated and seemingly alive portraits—they seemed completely normal on a night as bizarre as the one she was currently experiencing.

It truly was exhilarating. It was frightening—yes, but undoubtedly one of the most incredible experiences of her life. Brandy heard the delighted laughter of a child, and was startled to realize it was her own. A small corner of her mind noted with approval that she now had complete control over her face and voice, but the rest was completely devoted to enjoying the moment.

The broom slowed slightly as Theo carefully lifted his hand off the polished wood and into his pocket to retrieve his wand. A few whispered words and gestures and the massive doors in front of them unlocked and opened noiselessly outward to reveal the cool, dark grey of early morning. With hardly a second's pause, the wand was back in his pocket and Theo once more urged the broom forward. They flew much faster now that they were outdoors, and were soon over a large lake, dipping dangerously close to the glassy surface before accelerating higher and faster to pass over the top of a forest that seemed to stretch on without end. At long last they came to the same village where the train had stopped the day before.

Coming to a stop on the outskirts of Hogsmede, Theo none-too-gently dropped Brandy to the ground and dismounted from the broom. Letting out a groan, he winced as he stretched his arm—no doubt stiff from holding Brandy for so long. Brandy watched his discomfort in satisfaction, rightfully miffed at him for dropping her. She was hardly a piece of baggage to be tossed to the porters and laid aside in the dirt. Not that there were any porters here to catch her, of course.

"You're lucky Maggie thinks you're so important. If it weren't for her, you'd be on your merry way back home in two days—the picture of health if you discount three days-worth of missing memories." He glanced down at her, somewhat startled at the malicious glare she directed towards him. "Well, I can see you're absolutely overflowing with gratitude. Funny, it's the same sort of feeling that I have towards you for taking away my full-nights rest to engage in activities that would require my immediate expulsion from the school, should they ever be discovered. But no time for heartfelt thanks now, here's someone come to relieve me of my—" he glanced down at her, mockery shining in his eyes, "—burden."

A sneer formed on her face as she opened her mouth to deal out a nasty retort. "Ah ah—none of that, now. There's precious little oxygen left in the world as it is--thanks to that peculiar muggle obsession with destroying natural resources--to waste it on such unnecessary words as would come from your mouth." He finished his speech with a smart flick of his wand, and Brandy found to her horror that once more she was robbed of her voice. A patronizing smile was all the response to her indignant and decidedly murderous glare.

"Well darling," the idiot had the gall to _wink_ at her, "I'm afraid I must be going now. Oh, don't cry—I'm sure we'll see each other again," horror and terror mingled together at the thought, "but just to ensure our parting is not entirely bitter, a sweet gift for you, my lady." He smoothly leaned forward, slipped his arm under hers and dragged her upwards before turning his face to hers and planting a smart kiss on her lips. A silent, startled squawk of indignation rose up from within her as her brain went on overload—exactly the distraction he had hoped for and expected. So confused and chaotic were her thoughts that she didn't even notice when he silently raised his wand and stunned her back into the dark, silent cocoon of unconsciousness.

* * *

**Well, I realize its been an insanely long time since I updated. Many apologies. However, as I am released from my scholastic stuffs, I should be able to update much.  
Also, if you have any questions or criticisms or just comments about _Project Nine and Three-quarters_, please message me or press the review button--I love talking to people and especially reading what people think about my works. I will reply to all reviews, though it might not be the same day as I'm experiencing quite a bit of trouble with my internet. Anyways. Thoughts, comments, questions--talk to me. Lovely.**

**Cheers!  
Eleora**


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